Izorkro
by Pixo
Summary: "A Dwarf should have his feet on the ground or, more preferably, a hundred feet below. But they're nippy little buggars, I can tell you, and useful for getting behind the enemy and given 'em a good wallop up the backside with that rapid-firing gun." —Durgrim Redmane, Longbeard, on the merits of Gyrocopters
1. Izorkro

**_Izorkro_**

 **~Z~**

"Run lad, go quick!" The longbeard pushed an ornate ivory scroll tube into the beardling's arms. Then grasped the youth by the shoulders, spun him around and gave him an almighty shove. "GO!"

The lad did not hesitate, and dashed off as quickly as his short legs could carry him. The longbeard watched him go with consternation, tugging at his beard, then turned and stumped up to a small stone door that was ajar; a worrying roaring came from within. Crashing, yelling, the clang of metal, the longbeard squared his shoulders, hitched his belt around his belly and with a tremendous war-cry stormed the door.

The lad huffed and puffed up the long ramps and spiral stairs of Karak Frungi, and he prayed to his ancestors that he'd be quick enough and swore oaths to himself that he'd not fail. After what seemed half-a-day of running, trotting, walking, and more running he emerged into a tunnel that ended a set of double doors, faced in iron and copper and ornately engraved with myth scenes of Morgrim and Smednir.

He knocked and waited, but nothing happened so he pushed at a door gently and poked his head in. He looked at a workshop set nearly at the pinnacle of the mountain. The space was twenty strides wide and fours dwarfs tall, there was a closed heavy wooden door at one side and long wooden work benches along the other, with vises of various sizes. Above it were shelves with boxes of nuts and bolts, nails and screws. Stands of tools and racks of metal, wood, fabric, and oils were stationed around the workshop. In one corner was a forge and anvils, above the workshop a lifting gantry on rollers with hooked chains tired off to one wall, they _tinked_ softly in the breeze. One end of the workshop was fully open to the sky, and the beardling hesitated, fearful of the great, blue, endlessness.

The workshop extended onto a rectangular wooden platform, not unlike a castle's drawbridge. Formed of thick oak planks the platform was hinged to the workshop floor and hung on huge links of chain, each link half-a-dwarf in size, that ran to a series of pulleys and counterweights. On the platform sat the object of the beardling's mission.

A gyrocopter.

He walked slowly to the flying machine.

It faced away from him and he started his visual journey at the tail-boom. Working backwards his eyes started at the vertical fish-tail fan that ended the flying-machine. The tail rotor, three blades of bronze in a ring of metal, was set into the tail-boom itself, not attached to the side of it. The tail-boom was about the length of the beardling arms stretched out. The boom attached to the main body of the gyrocopter above the complex assembly of the light-weight steam engine that drove the rotary-blades. At nearly three times his height the blades gave the gyrocopter the ability to stay airborne, and they themselves were three long blades and three short, mounted on a thick rotor mast and connected to the engine by a complex series of gears and swivels. The blades were held on by a shield-sized nut, the Grungni Nut, and it was highly decorated with the face of the Great Ancestor himself.

The front part of the gyrocopter was the cockpit. The cockpit was enclosed in sheets of riveted steel and made the front half of the flying machine roughly egg-shaped. The pilot's seat was a spring-mounted chair of wood and soft leather and the pilot was strapped in by metal chains that slipped over shoulders and around the waist and buckled together to keep the pilot safe during maneuvers. The seat was set deep in the cockpit, the fuselage came up the pilots head. To either side were two main control sticks, the rotor-stick and the propeller-stick. Between the pilot's legs was the control stick for the cannon. Another dozen sticks, toggles, cranks, and pumps were scattered around the tight space. Two pedals under foot. The dashboard had a number of dials, two for pressure – the engine and the cannon, a compass, a fuel gauge, water temperature, and two bubble instruments – one for level the other for plumb.

To either side of the cockpit were the propellers, egg-shaped engines that had six short twisted areofoil shaped blades that drove the gyrocopter forwards. At the low front end was the dark barrel of a cannon, the muzzle sculpted to resemble that of a dragon. The whole machine sat on thick landing skids. The flying machine was painted red and black with polished copper edging and inserts of copper scrolling motifs. Shield-icons of ancestors decorated the front, sides, and tail-boom, in gold-leaf the word _Izorkro_ was painted on the side, just below the cockpit.

The beardling stood in awe, and slowly reached out a hand to touch the machine. As his fingers brushed one the blades of the propellers …

"Oy!" came great shouted came from him.

He jumped up and spun around. "Sorry, master-pilot!"

The pilot stood by an open door, glared angrily. The pilot wore breeches, tucked into his boots, and a tunic top, the sleeves rolled up passed the elbows. "Get away! Your clumsily hands will do a' damage!"

The beardling backed away quickly and stood quietly, eyes down. He heard the pilot stump to him, "What do you want, beardling?"

"Master," the beardling started and offered the scroll-tube. "From the steward of Thane Ironarm, he requested that I make haste with this."

The pilot stood there, looking at the tube for a long moment, then took it. He opened it and spied in suspiciously. After a moment he pinched out a piece of paper. He glanced at the beardling, then turned his back to read it. After a moment he grunted and rolled the letter up tightly and put it back the tube.

When he turned back the beardling was watching him. "You've a name, lad?"

"Magnar, master. Borekson."

"Kazik Thorbalson," the pilot stuck out a hand and in delighted surprise the beardling all but jumped to shake his hand. Kazik had big shoulders, an unusually small belly, a full head of thick dark brown hair, cut short but stylishly combed, and a greying unbraided beard that reached his belt. "Right, lad, we've business now. Stand aside and do as you're told."

Magnar nodded and moved to stand next to the work bench.

"Thylda!" Kazik called out. After a few moments a female dwarf with bright blonde hair and a pair of goggles on her forehead came out of the door the pilot had appeared at. Kazik jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "Get Izorkro ready and quick. I've gotta fly."

Thylda nodded and jumped into action. As she dashed to the gyrocopter, Kazik dashed back into the pilots barracks.

Magnar stood perfectly still as he watched the young kvinn work. Firstly, she slipped an apron over her neck and tied it quickly. Then she grabbed a trolley loaded with jugs, oil cans, spare parts, tools, and a bewildering variety of spanners and pushed it towards the flying machine. She ducked under the tail boom, squatted down and stared intensely at the engine. After a moment she nodded to herself and fetched a spanner, she pushed it into the engine assembly, fumbled around for a few moments, pulled it out, and inspected the engine again. She liked what she saw and returned the spanner. She opened a hatch and took a fire-lighter from the trolley. She lit it with a flint-lighter and tossed it into the firebox. She closed the box, snatched up her oil can, and made her way to the cockpit by built-in hand and foot holds.

There she toggled a few toggles, pumped a few pumps, and scamper up the back of the seat, and standing on tip-toes pushed the rotary blades a little to help get them moving. They moved very slowly at first, but gradually picked up speed. She squirted oil onto the rotary-mast and then dropped back down into the cockpit. She sat on the chair and ducked down, so Magnar could not see watch she was doing. The occasion bump or thump, and the quick hiss from the cannon told him she was active though.

She popped back up and quickly climbed out of the cockpit. Her next task was to start up the propellers and she did so quickly and professionally. After that she took a long, slow walk around the gyrocopter, her eyes moving over every inch of it. Here she paused to check a rivet, there to wipe off a stray drop of oil, her final task was to double-check the engine. The rotary blades turned more quickly and created a soft _fumping_ noise, while the propeller blades created a strange oscillating sound.

After all checks were passed she pushed the trolley back to the wall and scampered back into the cockpit. She gave Magnar a wicked glare and pulled a lever. The loud, ear-piercing shrill of a steam whistle made Magnar jump and launch himself in the workbench. Thylda grinned meanly.

A moment later Kazik reappeared. He was dressed to fly. His breeches were still tucked into the boots and he now wore a heavy leather coat with a high sheep-skin collar, already propped up. A red scarf was untied about his neck. He had a flying helmet under one elbow. Padded on the inside and made of bronze it was polished to gleam, the helmet had a fin along the top, padded hinged cheek guards, and brass-framed goggles with tinted lens sat on the helmet's brow. Across his chest was a leather harness and strapped under the other elbow was a heavy pistol. His belt had pouches and compartments, but none to the front or back – those would obstruct his operating the flying machine. He had a small backpack hanging from his shoulder, the head of a warhammer stuck out of the flap.

By the time he'd reached Magnar, Thylda had climbed out of the gyrocopter and had come across the workshop to meet him. Magnar noticed that on Kazik's coat were two pins. The first was made of gold and was the winged-Z icon of the Zhufbar gyrocopter guild. The second was a more intricate brooch; at the center of a disk of dark steel, a crow made of polished jet perched on a stylized steam-engine made of copper. To either side of the crow-n-engine was flanked by an inverted hammer and spanner in silver. He quickly saw that Kazik was at least hundred, if not hundred and fifty, years older than Thylda. Magnar watched the two closely. The kvinn took up his scarf and tied it around his neck and beard. The pilot stared at the kvinn while she worked, then kissed her gently on the forehead. He walked to Magnar and said loudly, "Help Thylda close the shop."

"Yes, master!"

Kazik climbed half way up to the cockpit and dropped his helmet onto the chair. He tucked the scroll tube and a small backpack and canteen behind the seat. He jumped back down and took a slow, long walk around the gyrocopter, almost mirroring Thylda's route. He even checked the same rivet. When he was done he gave Thylda a thumbs-up, which she returned and lowered her goggles over her eyes. Kazik climbed into the cockpit. He wriggled around a bit to get comfortable and worked the various levers and sticks.

After a minute or two he slipped his helmet on, slipped his chain-link seatbelts over his shoulders and buckled them together. He pulled his goggles over his eyes and then looking left and right to make sure he was clear, applied pressure to the control sticks. Suddenly, the noise increased ten-fold and a wave of air blasted over the two. Thylda was used to it and grinned wildly. Magnar was nearly bowled over, and dropped to all four.

In a thunder of endless noise and a blur of spinning blades the gyrocopter lifted off smoothly and gently edged outwards. It moved upwards and was soon floating unsupported in the air. Kazik yawed the gyrocopter so he could see into the workshop and nodded to Thylda. He then banked the gyrocopter away and set off.

The kvinn pushed her goggles back to her forehead and nudged Magnar which her boot and pointed a windlass mounted on the wall. The youth nodded in understanding. They both worked the device until the landing pad fully closed. Once the draw-platform was sealed the workshop was quiet and dark, lit only by two until then unnoticed lanterns.

Thylda stood staring at the stone floor, hands on hips, having already forgotten about Magnar.

"Em," the beardling introduce himself awkwardly. "I'm Magnar."

The kvinn paused in her thoughts and stared at him for forty heartbeats before reluctantly putting out her hand, "Thylda," she said, "Thylda Kazikfind."

Magnar raised an eyebrow. Kazik _find_? Thylda was a foundling whose parentage could not be ascertained. In the Karak Ankor recordkeeping was a guild's obligation, a clan's duty, and a hold's obsession, so it must have been an incredibly rare, and no doubt catastrophic, circumstance that Kazik could not find any information on Thylda's family, next of kin, or even her clan. By taking the suffix – _find_ Thylda had become Kazik's adopted daughter.

"So," he said slowly, "you're his apprentice? Do you fly much?"

Thylda snorted in disgust and stumped to barrack's door and without paused slammed it so hard the tools on the racks rattled. Magnar was left to stand alone in the dark workshop. After a moment's awkwardness, he slunk to the corner of the workshop, plopped down and pulled his knees up to chest to wait until Kazik returned. Only then could he make his way back down inside the mountain.

 **~Z~**

Kazik flew south, south-east towards Zhufbar. Following the safest routes through the widest mountain valleys would take him a few hours to get there. He could fly over all but the highest peaks of the World Edge's Mountains, but to do so would risk his flying machine. At such high attitude the steam-engine started to fail. He would stay in the valleys, and had more than enough fuel to get him there and back without any trouble. The weather looked fair, but storms tended to suddenly appear in the valleys, so he kept a weather eye on the horizon. Visibility clear and would be sixty or seventy miles, but for the mountains. The noise of the engine and the thumping of the blade made it impossible to hear any sound. Not that much could bother him up here. That said, gyrocopter lore is littered with stories of pilots being pounced upon by airborne predators. He reached out and pushed his side-view mirrors out, allowing him a visual awareness of the rear-quarter.

His routine was that he scanned straight ahead, then checked his instruments, then scanned to his right, returned to check his instruments, then scanned off to his left, then returned his eyes to the instrument panel. Then he repeated. If anything caught his eye he would roll the gyrocopter slightly to get a better look.

He flew along the valley trail, which paralleled the river coming down the mountain and in the distance he saw a crew of dwarfs muddling about the trail. He passed over them quickly, looped around and passed it again, this time much more slowly. Once he was above it he saw a dozen dwarfs looking up at him. Some waved in greeting, others in urgency.

Kazik drifted slowly above them at about three hundred feet and took a long scan of the surrounding valley. He then looped the gyrocopter down to about six feet and hovered to a stop and slowly touched down a hundred paces from the group. The leader of the dwarf came trotting over stared in awe and confusion at the gyrocopter. He made a questioning gesture if that he should come to Kazik, the pilot held up his hand and shook his head. If he let the dwarf come up him, he'd likely rend his leg on a propeller blade. Kazik set the gyrocopter's engine to idle and unbuckled himself. He pulled his helmet off, checked his handgun was holstered and climbed down.

He met the dwarf, an older fella, a few dozen feet away from the gyrocopter.

Kazik asked loudly, "How do?"

The other dwarf nodded and shrugged, "Not great, friend. Come see."

Kazik followed the dwarf to the others and some smiled at him, others frowned at the gyrocopter. Kazik just nodded politely and looked at the scene.

An ore wagon had slipped off the trail and was trapped on the slope down to the river. The two wheels they could see looked fine, but the old dwarf confirmed the front one under the wagon was smashed. Both draft animals, heavy oxen, had broken their legs and one was killed outright, the other had to be put down. The driver was thrown when it went over, and was badly hurt. He lay on the ground, a blanket over his chest, another under his head. His face was bruised and he was unconscious.

The crew was one extended family and was a dozen strong; eight beards, two kvinns, and two beardlings. They had unloaded the ore, but the wagon shifted dangerously went they moved about it, and was set to tip completely into the river below.

"I hate to ask, lad, but we need help. If we don't get the wagon out of there and get it fix, and get this ore to market we're going to be ruined." The old dwarf muttered quietly to Kazik.

The pilot carefully climbed down to the wagon and had a good look around it. He tested the ground with his boot, pushed at the wagon a little, and measured the height of the bank. He climbed back up, the old dwarf giving him a heave onto the trail. The pilot stared at the wagon for long minutes. Kazik had spent over thirty years as an engineer, before becoming a gyrocopter pilot, which he had done for more than fifty years. There was little he did not know about the strengths and weaknesses of gyrocopters. He stood there he calculated the weight of the wagon versus the weight-to-strength ratio of the gyrocopter's light-weight steam engine. Eventually he said, "Right, this is what we'll do. We hook a tow rope to _Izorkro_ and I'll give you all the lift I've got. Some of your people will need to get under it, make sure it doesn't catch on anything. We attach another rope to the rear of the wagon. Once we get it up, you'll to get everyone else to haul on that rope. Drag it up here."

The old dwarf thought about it and nodded. "Aye, it's a good plan."

Kazik trotted back to the gyrocopter and got the engine up the power and flew closer the wagon, setting down on the trail above it. He climbed down, and from the tail-boom hatch he took out a long length of heavy hawser rope. It had heavy hooks at either end and Kazik fitted one to a u-bar behind the cannon and tossed the other down the bank.

He looked at the family and said loudly, "Don't touch _Izorkro."_

"Coppercrow?" asked one of the beardling, before being shushed.

Kazik smiled proudly, "Named for the Clan that owns it. Mine."

The pilot climbed down the bank and spent a good ten minutes getting the rope attached to where he thought best. The other rope was tied on and Kazik climbed the bank and back into cockpit.

He fired up the engine and lifted off, the blades pushed dirt and grit away in every direction. The family just hide their faces and bore it without compliant. The rope uncoiled and was soon tight. Kazik waved a hand at the old dwarf and applied power to rotor, driving the machine upwards. There was a groan from the Coppercrow's frame, and Kazik frowned, his eyes on the instruments. He applied more power and after a moment felt the gyrocopter jerk upwards. A quick glance told him he wagon was freed from the bank. Keeping the rope tight, he yawed around, and applied power to the propellers, pushed the gyrocopter forwards. The family below hauled on their rope and between the gyrocopter and the muscle power of the family they dragged the broken wagon back onto the trail.

Kazik set the gyrocopter down on the trail and collected and coiled his rope. He also gave the Coppercrow a good looking over. He fetched his tool bag from the tail-boom hatch and unloaded the reserve water tank into the main reservoir and re-filled the reserve from the river water. He also unloaded his own personal water tank into the stream.

Once he was ready to fly he surveyed the busted wagon with the family, made a few recommendations on repair, than shook hands with everyone there. He made no comment about possible payment. None was offered, anyways, except a pack of cooked sausages, which he did not refuse. He did however mention his clan's name half a dozen times, to make sure they remembered it and would recount the tale to everyone they met.

With a jaunty salute from the cockpit he took off, flew down valley for a minute, then turned around, and flew back hard and low, thundering above the family at nearly maximum speed. They took a fright and ducked or dove for cover. Kazik grinned wildly, "Don't offer me any payment, will you!" His roar was lost in the noise of the engines and blades.

 **~Z~**

He flew onwards. As he passed over a valley's saddle he saw a thin column of smoke at the end of the valley and angled towards it. He looped around a clump of tree and saw a campsite – crude tents and a firepit with a long, skinned animal tied to a spit. Figures startled and leapt up. It only took him a moment to recognize that they were beastmen – primitive half-animal, half-man abominations that prowled the mountain's forest. The creature on the spit was no deer, it was a manling, roasted alive.

The beastmen roared and shook clubs and rock-head axes at him. The herd gathered closely together.

He looped the campsite again and took note of the various mountains in view. He would report this sighting to the Master-Pilot of Zhufbar. But only after he did something about them.

He needed both his hands to keep the flying machine moving whilst airborne, so gyrocopter pilots had come up with a way to fly and use the cannon at the same time. Kazik took a moment to tie his beard to the cannon's firing lever. Using great skill he brought Coppercrow around and at the beastmen fast at about twenty feet up.

At the last moment he jerked his head and pulled the firing lever towards himself, opening the pressure value. A terrifying hiss-scream wailed as a cone of invisible super-heated steam blasted out and caught the first few beastmen fully. The first beastman was nearly cut in half, simple coming apart where the steam touched him. The one next to him had an arm sliced off, another had a snout blasted off, the next few further along had their eyes boiled by the steam, and their faces melted. The ones caught only by the edge of the cone were badly burned and threw themselves away. The rest of the herd flinched and dodged.

Kazik pulled up the sticks and powered into the sky. With his knee he pushed the cannon lever forward, and watched as the pressure gauge slowly built up as the engine recharged the steam cannon. He looped around to have another look at the campsite, and saw he first pass had killed three and wounded half-a-dozen more, some fatally no doubt. Kazik nodded to himself and instead of risking the gyrocopter he turned and flew onwards.

For another hour he flew and as he rounded a lesser mountain, Zhufbar, the Torrent Gate, appeared in the distance.


	2. Skarrenruf Endrini

**_Skarrenruf Endrini_**

 **~Z~**

 _Kazad_ _Skarrenruf_ – the Blue Sky Fortress. Home of the Zhufbar Gyrocopter Guild and the busiest air-dock in the world.

The runway was a large, natural plateau, improved by generations of Zhufbar engineers to make it flat and supremely functional. They had laid the entirely plateau with black stone. To contrast sharply with the darkness, squares of white stone were spaced around the plateau – each about the size of a gyrocopter. They were the landing spots. At the north side were heavy stone double-doors flanked by towering, grim-faced statutes carved from the mountain - Grungni, clad in chainmail and armed with the runic warhammer _Drongrundum_ and Morgrim, dressed in mail and wearing belts hung with tools, in his hands was _Onkegruni_ , one of Grimnir's axes. The doors, thirty-beards high and twenty-beards wide, were the entrance to the Gyrocopter Workshops, and it was as fortified as any ingress into a dwarf hold would be. Thunderers walked battlements, cannons projected from galleries above the doors, and explosives had been implanted into the mountain above the entrance, which if ignited could bring down thousands of tons of rock to drown the doors and flood the runway in an unstoppable wave of stone.

No other air-dock in the world saw as much traffic was the runway at Zhufbar. Barak Varr had a significant engineering culture, more nautical then aviation, but their air-dock saw a lot of traffic. Karaz-a-Karak's air-dock grew larger and busier every year. But neither could compete with Zhufbar. A dozen gyrocopters were either beginning their start-up routines, or were already in the air. Eight war balloons drifted close to the ground at the east end of the landing pad, anchored to the ground by chains hooked onto thick iron rings set into the stone. One war balloon circled the air-dock at a high wide orbit, the glint of telescopes lens caught the sun – the Sentinel Balloon.

Kazik came in slow and moved to a hover. On the field of black stones a dwarf wearing bright red and holding a pair of multi-colored flags noticed Kazik. The groundcrew put one flag straight up, the other pointed directly at Kazik. The pilot held up his hand, to acknowledge he'd seen the dwarf. The groundcrew crossed the flags over his chest and trotted to an empty section of the runway. He took a good look at the busy airspace around and above him, then knelt down and tapped one of the flags at one of the white squares. Kazik raised his hand again, and gave the groundcrew a thumbs-up. He slowly drifted to his designated landing location and touched down soft as you like.

He shut down the engine and pulled off his helmet.

"Welcome to Zhufbar!" the groundcrew shouted from below.

Kazik smiled at the dwarf and tossed a jaunty salute. Groundcrew were apprentice engineers who had to do five years on the ground before they could start training to be pilots. Kazik had done it, as had every dwarf in the sky. The most junior groundcrew were responsible for clearing the runway and landing pads of any debris and garbage, to prevent foreign objects from damaging the engines and blades. They also inspected and assisted the stonemasons in repairing the runway. They lent their backs to any manual task – especially hauling supplies about the runway. More experienced members were the Flaghands. They directed where incoming gyrocopters, war balloons, and the big gyrobombers landed. The most senior Flaghand, Flagbeard Gotrek Gnoldron, observed the runway from a tower next the entrance into Zhufbar's gyrocopter workshops. With a whistle, horn, telescope, and a formidable temper the longbeard had directed the operations of the lesser flags for more than three hundred years, and did not look to be descending his observation tower anytime soon.

Once the apprentices did their five years on the runway they moved to the gyrocopter engineering. This part of their training was half in the workshop, half on the runway. In teams of four, each with more experience than the former and led by a senior engineer, the engineers met every gyrocopter when it landed and took a technical report from pilot.

By the time Kazik had climbed out and had both his boots on the stones his engineer team had arrived.

"How do?" the senior engineer asked. "That landing was soft as a kvinn's kiss."

"Good, aye, senior" Kazik replied, "I need a runebearer."

The senior looked to the youngest of his apprentices, snapped his fingers, and pointed to the runner's hut. The apprentice turned and dashed away. The hut was a low, stone walled structure more like a small fortress then a hut. The apprentice knocked, ducked inside, and after a few moments he and a runebearer came out. They both trotted over.

Kazik passed the scroll-tube to the professional messenger and said, "For the Thane of the Karazorrudgrizdals, from the Steward of the Thane of the Ironarms of Karak Frungi. Things are desperate, best go quick!"

The runebearer took the scroll-tube, tucked it securely into his backpack and with a quick nod to Kazik and the senior engineer, he turned and moved off at a mile-chewing trot. Kazik watched, his face worried.

"Needed anything?" the senior asked.

Kazik had the crew refuel Izorkro, and give it a good clean too. "The Rinki around?" he asked.

"Aye, I saw the commander in the workshop this morning."

The main double doors to the Workshop were closed, but smaller doors set into the larger ones were open. The workshop was a huge purpose-made chamber and a place of engineering wonder. He paused to take in the inspiring sight; groups of engineers worked on dismantled steam-engines; team of workers moved heavy machinery on wheeled hand-trucks or used overhead gantries; smith-engineers hammered away as they forged and shaped new components; in one corner an old, one-eyed, one-armed dwarf stood next to a slate board and was writing out equations for his desk-occupying pupils. Kazik closed his eyes and let it all wash over him; technical conversations buzzed, hammers tinked on anvils, lathes and grindstone squealed, engines puttered and sputtered, cogs and gears grounded. The pilot took a deep breath, the place smelled of oil and metal, soot and fire.

He was home.

 **~Z~**

Kazik Thorbalson had been born in Zhufbar, and engineering was in his blood. Both his parents were engineers – father a senior mechanic in times of peace and a flamecannon captain when at war; his mother a component designer who specialized in bronze foundry work until the warbanners were hosted, then she joined her husband's flamecannon crew. Kazik's early years were not much different than most: the first few years of his life he was raised in the clan crèche, then he was instructed by the clan elders in the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic, along with family, clan, and racial history. At around seventeen he did his two years of formal military training at the Temple of Grimnir – the rite of passage called the Forging. After that, as a proud young beardling Kazik did his first ten years of craft training as a blacksmith's apprentice, as was expected of every member of the Izorkro Clan. Afterwards, he followed his in family's bootprints and went on to do a twenty-five year engineering apprenticeship.

Young Kazik had shown an interested in Gyrocopters early on during his apprenticeship and even though neither of his parents had ever flown, they'd never left the undermountain in fact, they encouraged him to apply to become a _Skarrenruf Endrini_ , a Blue Sky Engineer. Once he had finished his twenty-five, he asked his Clan elders leave to join the Gyrocopter Workshop – the Izorkro Clan were not one of the flying Clans. After some discuss, they agreed. Seventeen years later his parents, and Clan, could not have been prouder when he had graduated First-Beard, was ritually initiated into the Engineer's Guild, and giving his winged-Z pin of the Zhufbar Gyrocopter Guild.

More than a hundred years later he still received a jolt of excitement when he entered the Workshop. With a soft sigh of pleasure he moved deeper into the chamber. Kazik's first stop was to report to the Flight Recorder. The lorekeeper, and three clerks, documented everything landing and leaving, with what fuel, ammunition, and other resources. They catalogued and invoiced the various clans for payment. In addition, they took reports the pilots made. Kazik reported his assistance with the wagon, and his encounter with the beastmen. The lorekeeper wrote it down with his ink-chisel on good-quality paper and once Kazik was finished, he had the pilot sign it; the Flight Recorder counter-signed it and put the document in a black box. Later it would copied out, one copy sent to the Office of King's Loremaster, the other copy was sent to the Engineers Guild archives.

Once done he wandered the workshop looking for the Master Pilot. Kazik walked through the workshop; he saw a steam-engine hung by chains from a lifting gantry, a pair of kvinn engineers in oil-stained coveralls servicing it. He caught their eyes and flashed a dashing smile, they smiled back and one waved confidently, the other slapped her hand down in embarrassment.

Kazik smiled and strode onwards. At the rear of the workshop was the commander's office, a collection of rooms, offices, and libraries, and when Kazik asked to see the Rinki, he was escorted to the Master Pilot's office by a frowny, longbearded secretary.

The secretary knocked on the Master Pilot's granite black door and poked his head in. He muttered something and was given a reply.

The secretary returned and stated in a displeased tone, "You may enter."

Kazik passed into the Master Pilot's office. The office was a nod to function over form, and not remotely grandiose. It was wide and low-ceiled, lit with heavy lanterns and small fireplace burned softly along one wall. The other wall was half bookshelves and half scroll racks. The remaining wall space was hung with maps, dozens of them. The furniture was of the highest-most quality, but almost brutal in its simplicity. Sitting behind a wide desk was the Master Pilot himself; working at a drawing with pencil, compass, and straightedge. Scattered around the desk were sheets of paper with more drawings, blueprints, or complex mathematic equations held down by more drafting tools, an ink pot, mug of beer, and charcoal sticks. He puffed on a surprisingly dull-made, short-stemmed pipe, and grunted without looking up, "Kazik Thorbalson."

"Gnollentromm, Master Ulther."

Ulther finished drawing a few lines, checked an equation sheet, and then finally looked up. He waved his hand at a chair in front of his desk. Kazik sat down and inquired, "How do, Rinki?"

The master shrugged and said, "Same as always. Not enough money, to many demands. The young are getting younger, I reckon. This last batch of apprentice pilots are downright woeful."

Kazik smiled, he was sure Ulther had said the same of Kazik's own training cohort. And every cohort that had ever trained at Zhufbar under his steely eyes.

The Master Pilot was the longbearded Thane Ulther Garazan; master engineer, brilliant mathematician, and bold pilot with a roguish reputation. Thane Ulther was Head of Zhufbar Gyrocopter Guild and in being so he was Kazik's direct superior. Ulther had a huge job and a heavy responsibility.

He was ultimately in-charge of every aspect of the Gyrocopter Workshop; the groundcrew on the runway, the smiths and engineers in the forges and machineshops; mason's repairing _Kazad_ _Skarrenruf_ ; he was also the director of the science and engineering tutors in the learning hall (and regularly taught lessons on geometry, algebra, and navigation to aspiring young apprentices); he managed the Guild's budgets, and the Workshop's recruitment, and it was his personal mission to avenged the Grudges in Workshop's Book of Grudges and the Guild's Book of Remembering. He had a seat on the Engineer's Guild High Council and meet with the High Engineer regularly and King Barundin Stoneheart every few months. He had been in charge of the air-ships of Zhufbar for two hundred and fifty years, and he'd seen a thousand of pilots come and go, and remembered every one of them.

The master continued, "What is it that I can do for you, Thorbalson?"

"Do you have any work going for a pilot at his leisure?"

"You gonna be here long?"

"Yeah, I'd say a week, or there about." The runners, in relay, would take at least two days to reach the Thane of the Karazorrudgrizdal clan down in the Deeps, and maybe another day, perhaps two to get things organized. Then they'd send runners back to Gyrocopter Workshop, another two days, where Kazik would get the message and then return to Karak Frungi. Five days, at the minimum, but more likely seven or eight days before he could leave.

The master leaned back in his chair, puffed on his pipe and thought. "Aye, I've got something. Lunn's taking a war balloon to a valley out east. He's down a gunner. We've reports of a goblin warband on the move, and the King wants us to post sentinels at the valley heads."

Kazik thought about it. War balloons could stay out for weeks at a time, but it was Guild policy to rotate them every five days. The pilot nodded his agreement.

The master continued, "You know Lunn Debkronk?"

Kazik nodded, "Aye. He was a few years ahead of me in the workshop, but we went through flight training together. Good pilot, very observant, knows his mechanics."

The Master nodded, puffed, and then frowned, "He know you? Your shenanigans from your early years have not been forgotten around here."

Kazik smiled easily, "Lunn and I have no ill history."

The Master stared at Kazik for a long moment before bellowing out with laughter. He clapped his hands together in glee, "That's 'cause the wazzock won't know what to do with a kvinn if she fell down his mine shaft!"

Kazik slapped his thigh and laughed too, "I sure do know what to do with 'em!"

 **~Z~**

Kazik chatted with the Master Pilot for a few more minutes before being dismissed. On his way out he collected a small copper-disc chit from the grim-faced secretary, and made his way down to the armory. The armory was a fortress within a fortress and outside a low, thick metal door he met a Thunderer sergeant with an outlandishly curled mustache. Kaizk passed him the chit and was escorted to the weapons vault deeper in the armory. The vault was lit by rare and difficult to make _rhun_ -inscribed Glowstones and the reason was obvious. Barrel and barrels of blackpowder. Additionally, many racks of the most modern weapons in the Dwai arsenal were present; cannons, organ guns, flamecannons, pistols and handguns.

From one rack he took down a handgun. The Thundergun was a standard Dwarf handgun and been around for more than fifteen hundred years. Little of its basic design had changed in that time, only the quality of the materials and the skill of crafting them had improved.

The pilot took a long time examining the piece. Like all handguns it was made of wood and steel, usually they were detailed ornately with bronze, silver, gold, but this piece was not overly wrought with decoration. Only a few touches had been added; the butt of the handgun had been reinforced with a ribbed steel sheet, bronze ancestor-face disks were mounted on either side of the stock, and two flat bars of copper ran the length of the barrel and they connected with three sets of astragal and fillet reinforcing rings. The hammer was a serpent, the flint held tightly in a fanged maw. He liked the look of it.

"Who's was it?"

"Iprik Kraggsson," the sergeant said, twirling his mustache, "Orc's got him. Last of his line so his Thunder-maker was sent to us."

"It'll do."

The sergeant nodded, fetched a shoulder strap and belt with a hefty pouch – the cartridge box; paper cartridges that contained a spherical lead ball and blackpowder propellant. He passed the box to Kazik and then walked the pilot out of the vault and out of the armory.

Kazik made his way back up the workshop and made his way outside. He trotted over Coppercrow and fetched his helmet, backpack, and canteen. From the tail-boom compartment he pulled out two leather tarps. The first he tied it over the cockpit – to keep the rain out, the second over the engine. The engineering teams would tie down the blades later.

With his kit in hand and over shoulder, he walked to the east end of the runway, where the war balloons loomed overhead.

He recognized Lunn Debkronk and made his way over to him. "Lunn!" the pilot called. The dwarf looked up, looked away, and then did a double take. "Kazik?"

"How do, old beard?" Kazik replied happily.

Lunn looked confused, "Aye good. What you doin' here?"

Kazik smiled, "Heard you were short a gunner. Here I am!" he lifted the handgun up for show.

Lunn looked even more confused, but then shrugged. Kazik Thorbalson was a well-known pilot, respected engineer, and a crack-shot. Lunn would be happy to have him onboard. "Welcome aboard," Lunn gestured upwards to the gondola above them – _Yar Zilfin_ in gold leaf was engraved on the forward section of the hull.

If asked to describe the war balloon to someone who'd never seen on before, Kazik would do so thusly: imagine, if you will, a boat about ten strides long and three wide. This boat, called a gondola by engineers, hung on thick hawser cables from a floating resin-soaked canvas sack larger than the gondola itself and was the filled with a lighter than air gasses. Horizontal motion was controlled by altering the mixture of lift-gas vs. air. The gas bag was draped with a thick protective blanket of dried white leather and covered in netting. Internally, the large gas bag was made up of twenty-four separate compartments, each their own bag of gas, and unless more than half the compartments were destroyed the war balloon would maintain attitude.

The rear of the gondola was a raised engine house: a boxed in section that held the steam-engine and the propeller projected out the rear of the boat - those two devices powered the war balloon and give it locomotion. Rudimentary steering was made possible by rudder flaps attached to the sides of the gondola, below the engine house. Like the boat it resembled, the gondola was made of wood, and the deck was open to the elements. There was some space below deck, but mostly they were for storage and unless they were being used were left empty to reduce weight. Below deck and in front of the elevated engine-house was the one dedicated crew room - not even large enough to swing a snotling. The small cabin had a bunk of two beds, a pantry and keg and eating table, and a tiny worktable, a vise, and a collection of hand tools hung on a rack mounted to a crossbeam.

The gondola was painted a dark blue with bronze knotwork detailing. Three shields per side, painted with clan motifs, decorated the railing. The prow of the gondola was a resplendent woodcarving of Grimnir, mouth wide open in a fearsome warcry, enormous beard flowing over his massive chest and shoulder, cox-comb hair raised in defiance. Near the front of the gondola was a steering wheel, not unlike those found on the helms of maritime boats. There were additional levers to either side of the wheel which controlled the output of the engine and altered the level of lift-gas. Lunn, as captain-pilot of the _Yar Zilfin_ , flew the war balloon from there.

Normally, this particular war balloon flew with a crew of four – pilot Lunn Debkronk, the engineer Algrim Algrimsson, gunner Morga Sifnasdottir, and as replacement gunner Kazik finished off the company.

Algrim and Morga were already onboard and were heaving up boxes that the two pilots attached to a rope-n-hook that ran to a small crane swung over the railing. Kazik and Lunn chatted a bit as they worked, catching each other up on their lives and careers. Once the last box was hosted up Kazik asked, "What drink to you have on board?"

Lunn paused and smiled, "Got a keg of Ironbreaker's Standard up there."

"Ohh," Kazik replied in relish, "Nice!"

A rope-n-hook came back down and Lunn gestured to Kazik to place a foot in the hook. He hitched up his kit and did so, wrapped one arm tightly around the rope, and gave a thumbs-up with the other. It jerked once then pulled smoothly to the crane. Once up there he got his first look at the _Yar Zilfin_. Orderly and already the boxes were being taking down below and securely stored. Morga swung the crane back towards the deck and Kazik pulled his legs up and he drifted over the railing. He stepped off the hook.

"Oh, how do?" She asked and put her hand out. "Morga Sifnasdottir, of the Brynduraz Clan, Gunner." Morga was a short red-haired kvinn with bright eyes and an easy smile. She was maybe sixty years old and her freckles and tanned face showed she spent a great deal of time out-mountain.

Kazik took her hand and introduced himself, "Kazik Thorbalson, Clan Izorkro, I'm just covering for this trip."

Morga looked him up and down, her appraisal without concealment, "Oh. That Thorbalson, eh?"

Once Kazik was clear of the rope Morga gathered up the hook and tossed it overboard. She swung the crane over the railing and then reached down and pulled a lever on a small, steam-power engine hoist. The hook dropped down, Morga watched it, then stopped the engine. She waited until Lunn had climbed on and she raised the hook. After a few moments Lunn's bearded head appeared, and like Kazik he pulled his legs up as the crane swung back to the deck and he stepped off the hook.

"Algrim!" Lunn shouted and passed his kit to Morga. The gunner separated what was needed on-deck and what was to go below. She put Lunn's hangun on a rack near the steering wheel, and hung his helmet, goggles, and canteen from a nearby hook. By the time she was done, the engineer had appeared. Kazik stared hard for a long moment. Algrim Algrimson was quite young to be an engineer, let alone to be a fully trained Blue Sky Engineer.

Kazik frowned, but Lunn interrupted his thoughts, "Alright, gather 'round. This be Kazik Thorbalson, he's with us for this float. Kazik's an old skyhand and has been up balloons before, but never this one. Morga show him where to put his things and give him a show-around. Algrim, get the engine streamy, we're off as soon as it's hot."

"Aye captain!" the young engineer replied enthusiastically.

"Beer's this way," Morga nodded her head toward the aft hatch.


End file.
